


Hungover

by Feffernoose



Category: House of Leaves - Mark Z. Danielewski, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 02:00:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feffernoose/pseuds/Feffernoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <pre><a href="http://quotes.fourisland.com/443">#443</a> - April 23 2011 at 07:56:49 pm UTC
Hatkirby: Ftairs! We found ftairs!
Drifty: I warned you, bro, I warned you about ftaiiiiirs- OH GOD THE MINOTAUR
Drifty: I firmly believe that House of Leaves can be crossed over with anything
Hatkirby: Johnny, Imma let you finish, BUT BEYONCÉ HAD THE WORST DRUG-RELATED BOOK-INDUCED FREAK OUT OF THE YEAR!
Drifty: Is this is a thing that happen
Hatkirby: lololololol</pre>
            </blockquote>





	Hungover

Johnny stands in a dark hallway. The ashen walls cocoon him, like the touch of a dear mother, or the graceful inequity of LSD. Hugged in this way, he crawls, erect, down the passage. The familiar growl accompanies his progress, almost cooing to him.

Johnny stops. That noise certainly wasn’t a growl. He reaches out to the side, and pushes. The walls have not changed. The hallway remains as dark as ever. And yet, it almost appears that there is a light at the end of it. Perhaps it is a visual trick, Johnny’s eyes playing tricks on him in the everlasting darkness. Perhaps it is his last inkling of sanity, rushing away from him.

That noise certainly wasn’t a growl, not anymore.

Was that… cheering?

Johnny pushed away the curtain, and was greeted with rancorous applause.

“And for 2009’s Best Drug Trip, the winner is… Johnny Truant!” yells a vibrant announcer. The audience goes wild, and a spotlight waves over, soldering Johnny’s vision. Drunkenly, he walks forward. Men, covered in glittery suits and obnoxious buttons, gesture towards the stage. Johnny follows their command, not because he wants to, but because it doesn’t even mean anything anymore.

“Mr. Truant, your tales have entranced us all,” says the DDD-cupped, scantily clad woman on stage. “When you shit your pants in the paint store, we all shit with you, in a metaphorical, though still smelly, way. Every tablet of ecstasy you took, we were right there with you, cheering you on.”

Johnny glances, glassy eyed, at the woman in front of him, and turns to the raving audience that bellows his name. Lights blare, music flashes; the sensory input is almost too much to take, but he carries on. He staggers, almost falling, up to a podium which he could’ve sworn wasn’t there before. He takes a deep breath, and takes the microphone from the grinning prostitute.

“Hello,” he tries to say. No words come out. His throat is dry. His voice is dead. The scene stretches out endlessly before him, stopped only by the suddenly cry of—

“JOHNNY TRUANT!” yells a gruff, male voice. Johnny turns, again, and flinches. Kanye West runs violently toward the stage. He jumps up the stairs, and steals the microphone from Johnny.

“Johnny, I love you bro, and I’mma let you finish,” Kanye says, gesturing to the shit still falling out of Johnny’s trousers. “But Beyoncé had the worst drug-induced book freakout of the year. Of the YEAR!”

Everyone gasps. Ke$ha throws a wine cooler at the stage. No one knows what to do, least of all Johnny. He just continues to stand there, patiently. It would all be over soon. A moment passes, and then a smashing sound rings out from the back of the stage.

“Give it up for Beyoncé-Beytwicé!” Kanye yells.

A horrid, half human, half horse creature gallops from behind the stage. It has brown fur, a lovely brunette mane/tail, and a muzzle that Thumper herself would be jealous of. Beyoncé bleats madly, and starts to gallop in circles.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay Twilight Beyoncé,” Kanye murmurs to the frightened beast on stage. “It’s just the pony serum you took.”

“Look at this incredibly sexual creature!” he yells, turning back to the astonished audience. “Do you see Mr. Truant here turning into a house? I don’t think so! Mr. Truant, while I do appreciate your work, you have not nearly the dedication to whatever Davidson lampoon bullcrap that Beyoncé has to My Little Pony: Friendship Is Divas! You didn’t take nearly enough drugs! For this, I boo thee sir!”

Kanye starts hopping up and down, beat-boxing, as Beyoncé stagedives into the audience, killing several Backstreet Boys. Johnny continues to stand there. And wait. And wait. And wait even more, even as the blare of the ambulance sirens deafen him, even as Kanye West throws up in his trousers, even as Beyoncé bucks him in the crotch. Yes, Johnny had taken enough drugs. It was all too clear.

When Johnny woke up, several hours later, he didn’t even try to recall what he had dreamed. It was always the same dream, and it had been for the past four years, ever since he got high and jacked off to Kanye West ridiculing Taylor Swift at the VMAs. It was the drugs, man. It was always the drugs.

He had no idea where the hell the ponies were coming from, though.


End file.
